


Filthy Poetry

by lavellanpls



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Accidental Stimulation, Dirty Talk, F/M, Flirting, Masturbation, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Sexual Fantasy, Touch-Starved, Trespasser Spoilers (ish?)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-23 15:09:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6120432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavellanpls/pseuds/lavellanpls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the tumblr <a href="http://lavellanpls.tumblr.com/post/138876975193/solavellan-accidental-boners-%CA%96">prompt:</a> <i>"Accidental boners."</i> *</p><p>Lavellan only laughed, and touched a hand to his chest in a playful shove. The contact was brief. Meaningless. But… “You do that,” she dared, and the burn that lit up his face took him by surprise.</p><p>It had been a very long time since anyone touched him. Perhaps too long.</p><p>Far, far too long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Filthy Poetry

**Author's Note:**

> *and probably like five kink meme prompts tbh.

The first time it happened had been an accident. Just an… _involuntary bodily reaction,_ perfectly explained away by anatomy. Nothing alarming, albeit perhaps a bit…unsettling.

It may have also—very partially—been his own fault.

Solas had thought little of their Herald at first. He wouldn’t call her beautiful, exactly. She was sharp-featured for an elf, complexion clouded beneath a thick smattering of freckles. Her nose was too long, lips too wide. Not beautiful, by classical standards, but he’d admit she was _striking_ —the way she held her head high, shoulders tossed back, red lips forever parted in a laugh. She was unafraid, and it lit her features like a flashfire, a warm glow of self-assurance. Not beautiful, perhaps, but…lovely. In her own way.

Solas found himself staring at her far more often than he’d anticipated. More than he was rightly comfortable with. He chalked it up to professional curiosity at first—she was a mortal bearing the mark of ancient magic, the lone survivor of a blast that decimated all others; he would be mad not to find her continued survival fascinating. Certainly it extended no further than scholarly interest.

He caught himself admiring the flare of her hips, thoughts slowing to a frozen trickle. A doomed Dalish girl, too curious for her own good. A lovely, doomed girl…

She asked to know more about him one day. A dangerous invitation. But his guard was down, and Lavellan so genuinely _curious._ They talked of dreams, of magic and motivations, and Solas would admit he may have said more than he’d intended. Lilith was such a new creature, though—a strange, quick thing with a sharp tongue and a stare that pinned him like an insect on display. His mask slipped, little by little, question by pointed question, until he felt himself slowly stripped, evasive efforts laid bare by clever words and a terrible, ruby smile.

 _“Tell me more about the Fade,”_ she said.

Solas had been so caught up in careful word games he hadn’t even realized just how far he’d let down his guard until he said something he shouldn’t have.

“You strengthen your body to deliver and withstand punishment. The muscles are an enjoyable side benefit. You have chosen a path whose steps you do not dislike because it leads to a destination you enjoy. As have I.”

Lavellan quirked a brow, eyes alight. “You find the muscles _enjoyable?_ ”

“I meant that you enjoyed having them, presumably.”

“Ah.”

And he didn’t know what was wrong with him, but he followed it with, “…but yes, since you asked.”

The uneven line of her lips split in a wicked smile. “Hmm. Well, if you ever want to enjoy them from a different view, let me know.  Maybe I’ll show you some you haven’t seen yet.” She winked, and he couldn’t help himself.

“An invitation I shall bear in mind.”

As he said. His own fault. He’d spent so long asleep, though, and before that _fighting_ —entrenched in the frontlines of a cold and bitter war, the leader of a rebellion that would shake the world. For better or for worse. There just…hadn’t been time for relationships, and even if there had there was no one he’d-

Well.

So much of intimacy hinged on trust, and Solas trusted very few. Maybe no one, truly. Certainly not _himself_. It was just…a surprise, that was all, to be so suddenly inundated with affection where there previously had been none. Perhaps his absence had left him sensitive to unwarranted attention. Perhaps it was something…else.

Lavellan only laughed, and touched a hand to his chest in a playful shove. The contact was brief. Meaningless. But… “You do that,” she dared, and the burn that lit up his face took him by surprise.

It had been a very long time since anyone touched him. Perhaps too long.

Far, far too long.

He excused himself with some urgent lie, and tried not to panic at the stir of warmth in his groin. A telltale rush of blood he had starkly _not_ been prepared for. He sealed himself behind the nearest locking door while a Chantry sister graciously called Lavellan away, and could feel only dismay at the sudden tightness of his breeches.

 _No_.

Oh, for… _honestly?_ He hurriedly readjusted himself, heartbeat racing at a traitorous pace. That was not supposed to happen. That was very, very explicitly _not_ supposed to happen. Not to _him,_ now, because of _this_. A deep breath steadied his pulse. It did nothing, unfortunately, for the rest of him.

He looked down at his own flagrant arousal and scowled. “Ridiculous,” he muttered, as if chastisement would somehow disappear it. “Just _ridiculous_.”

He just…had not been prepared, that was all. Wasn’t yet used to the rhythm of their interactions; the easy way their banter slipped into flirtation. Lavellan was a remarkable woman, but of course he didn’t _desire_ her—that would have been selfish. _Foolish_. She was lovely but he was so many other things, _terrible things,_ and neither of them were here for that. She’d simply caught him by surprise. Reached out and touched some sleeping, forgotten part of him that he had no time to revisit. It would pass. He’d just been…surprised.

That night sleep came reluctantly. Each time he closed his eyes the darkness flooded with her image—all spots and smiles and low, wicked words, hand touched to his chest, frozen in his mind like amber. He rolled over, frustrated, and tried not to focus on the drag of fabric against his aching cock. _A temporary unforeseen side effect,_ he chastised. An involuntary bodily reaction. It would dissipate.

* * *

 

The second time it happened was…a bit more difficult to explain.

Reports had come in of trouble in the small ice-locked village of Sahrnia. Stranded townsfolk, Red Templar activity… Lavellan insisted they leave as soon as possible, and Solas had to agree. They braved the trek to Emprise du Lion with a small party, racing a buildup of steadily darkening storm clouds, and when they finally reached an Inquisition campsite a shivering scout informed them that only half of their supplies had made it. “Delayed by the storm,” she explained. “The rest of our supplies won’t be here until morning. Until then, I’m afraid we’ve only got a couple of spare tents, ser.”

“That’s fine,” Lavellan said, unbothered. The vanishing sun cast her in shadow, snowy hair flickering in the wind. “We can share.”

Solas had never before heard a more terrifying statement.

Vivienne and Cassandra took one tent, weary but without complaint. Lilith took the other. Solas briefly considered sleeping by the campfire, but the looming threat of a blizzard forced him to take shelter in the only space available, and thus he found himself crammed miserably beside Lavellan in a space meant clearly for one. If she was bothered by the arrangement, she certainly didn’t show it. She let down her tangled hair, swiftly shed her armor, and was fast asleep under a mountain of furs in mere minutes. Solas, meanwhile, spent an embarrassing amount of time trying very hard to look anywhere else.

Apparently the Herald of Andraste preferred to sleep without pants. An…interesting observation.

Not that he was observing.

For once unable to sleep, Solas laid awake and tried to remember the last time he fell asleep beside another person. Unsurprisingly, he couldn’t.

A long, long time indeed.

The cold that night seeped beneath the walls of their tent, wind whistling through every gap in the canvas. While Lavellan slept soundly on, Solas pulled the blankets tighter around him and tried not to think of the hours left till sunrise. He fell grudgingly into a restless sleep pressed far to the edge of the tent. He awoke, hours later, to a warm presence at his side.

Lilith had rolled over in her sleep—curled up close beside him with her face nuzzled contentedly to his chest. Driven by the cold, surely. For a moment he almost considered waking her. But then she made a soft, needful noise low in her throat; turned with a restless hum and settled against him, her back slotted snug against his chest. And Solas could not quite convince himself to move.

Not yet.

She looked so peaceful asleep. _Sweet,_ almost—a rare and precious state for her. Solas watched the blankets rise and fall with each even breath, and had to actively remind himself why he shouldn’t wrap his arms around her. _Hold her,_ if only for a moment. He found himself imagining, however briefly, how it would feel to touch her—to have her pressed so sweetly against him, warm and content in his arms. How she’d nestle closer, lips parting against the flushed skin of his throat; would smooth a burning hand up his chest as he pulled her close, bare skin heated beneath his touch-

 _No._ No, that was… A creeping panic tugged at the darkest parts of his mind. That was the first time he’d ever imagined her undressed. The first he’d imagined _touching_ -

He was horrified.

Then Lavellan shifted beside him, still graciously asleep, and the way she ground against him sparked a terror that ignited his bones. He felt his body reacting despite himself—a guilty stirring of arousal that left his heartbeat thudding in his ears. No. No, no, not now. Not… She arched, wiggling back against his hips, and he hissed in a sharp inhale at the way her ass dragged against his steadily hardening length.

 _Oh_ no.

It took him far too long to quietly disentangle himself from her. Longer still to banish thoughts of all the things he could have done. He left her beneath a heap of blankets, alone, and tried to forget how badly he’d wanted to dig fingers into her hips and grind his release into the soft swell of her thighs.

He spent the rest of the night standing watch by the fire, for once grateful for the cold.

He did not try to sleep again.

* * *

 

The next time was _emphatically_ not his fault.

Or perhaps only half.

Whispers of Venatori activity had sent them on an arduous journey through the Hissing Wastes, an expanse of endless nothing so vast and empty the only plausible way to traverse it was by horse. They’d been preoccupied with sealing errant rifts, at first—but then they stumbled into a Venatori slaver camp, and Solas had never seen Lavellan shine brighter.

He watched her dismount in one fluid motion; unsheathed her axe and cut through a bellowing Venatori warrior before he could even land a blow. She locked onto a fleeing archer with a far-flung grappling hook, yanked him back only to level him with a hard kick to the spine, and Solas watched, feeling very _many_ things, as she decimated him with one calculated swing.

It took them minutes to wipe out the remaining Venatori. As soon as the camp was cleared she released the captives they’d caged, and sent them off with supplies and instructions on how to reach the nearest Inquisition camp. “You’ll be safe there,” she vowed, gloved hand firm on one man’s shoulder. “We’ll get you back home.”

They thanked her, hollow-looking and shaken, but she only laughed. “You’re people,” she said. “That’s my job.”

They rode off in search of more camps, Lavellan leading far at the head of their party, and Solas caught a glimpse back at the shrinking gathering of freed slaves in the distance.

He wondered how long it’d been since someone called them people.

Solas would admit he may have had a certain _preoccupation_ with their Inquisitor. Perhaps an attention that rose above the professional. He saw in her a power beyond the influence of the mark on her hand, a will like raging fire, and the glow of her left him subtly destroyed. Solas could watch her like this every day for the rest of his life and never tire of the sight. The people’s laughing avenger, riding into the setting sun still spattered in the blood of their captors; a bright and vengeful blade with motive only to defend. He respected her. Admired her.

Perhaps he harbored a few… _other_ feelings about her.

Then a lunging wyvern spooked her horse, and Solas watched from too far away as she was thrown to the ground. The horse was lost, chased off into the darkening evening by snapping jaws. Lavellan, meanwhile, dislocated her shoulder. Despite her insistence to “just pop it back in really fast,” Solas and Cassandra made the joint call to head back to camp, where they could at least give her a potion for the swelling. Solas could ease the pain with magic; warm her muscles and help keep her from tensing as he guided her bones back into place, but she’d need further attention. Sooner better than later.

Lavellan shrugged out of her coat and tied it into a makeshift sling, more inconvenienced than upset. “It’s not my rift arm, you know,” she reminded. “Technically I could get by without it.”

Cassandra would not even deign to reply to that. “We are returning to camp,” she maintained, and jammed a finger Solas’ way just as he pulled himself atop his horse. “You can ride with Solas.” She looked to him and commanded, “Watch her.”

Solas could think of at least one steadily growing reason why that was a bad idea.

Cassandra boosted her up, and she settled comfortably into place between his legs. He helped steady her with a hand at her waist, and was not at all prepared for the way she sealed her hand over his and squeezed. “Don’t let go yet,” she commanded. “I’ll need you.”

Solas would have no problem following that order. His heart kicked up a beat, anxiety swelling. _Oh,_ no.

It was no one’s fault. Truly. She was just pressed so close to him, nudged and bumped and jostled with each tortuous movement, of course his body would respond accordingly. It was only the friction. It wasn’t because of her. Had nothing to do with _her_.

It wasn’t because of the way she leaned back against him; how she rested her head comfortably against his shoulder and breathed deep, exhaling warm breath in the curve of his throat. How she smelled like smoke and metal and spice, earthiness cut through by the copper tang of drying blood. It wasn’t because he was finally able to _hold her,_ arm held tight around her middle, reveling in the firmness with which she clutched him. ( _For balance,_ he reminded _. Only balance._ )

The horse picked up speed, and Solas had to bite his lip at the sudden jolt of motion. He was so hard it _hurt_ —trapped cock twitching at each painful drag against the confines of his breeches. He tried to shift his weight, maneuver himself back, away from her, but she rested against him with a comfortable sigh and started talking about _stars,_ and he…

It had been so long since he’d been so close to someone. So excruciatingly _near_. And Lilith was…

Lilith was…

“We’re going the wrong way, you know.” She pointed up at the sky, tracing a map against the stars. “We’re headed east. Our nearest camp’s to the west.”

“Navigating by stars, now?”

“Navigating by stars always,” she amended with a laugh. “You spend enough time traveling alone, you learn how to get yourself places.” She nudged him with her good arm, smile spreading. “I could teach you sometime, if you want. Interested in learning some _celestial navigation?_ ”

Yes. He did want that.

He wanted to brush the snowy tendrils of hair from her tattooed forehead and listen to her detail new constellations for a thousand years. He wanted to draw her maps of the skies he’d memorized millennia ago; teach her the old names of forgotten constellations and listen to her explain the new shapes they’d shifted into. He wanted, above all these things, for her to keep touching him. He could keep warm for the rest of eternity if only she would keep _touching him_.

Solas spent the long ride back to camp with a painstaking gap kept between them, and prayed she couldn’t feel the stiff line of his erection pressed to her back.

Honestly, he was more _angry_ than anything. (Well, perhaps second to “mortified.”) He was too old for this. Far, _far_ too old for this. _Fenedhis,_ he wasn’t _twelve_ ; he wasn’t supposed to worry about getting _excited_ each time a beautiful woman bumped against him. Lilith was lovely, but she was doomed, and Solas had obligations. And _this_ …this was going to be a problem.

It took far too long to reach camp. When they finally did, Solas snuck away to very discreetly hide in his tent while Cassandra hauled Lilith off to their potion supply. He laid miserably atop his bedroll, furious stare fixed on the canvas above him, and tried to think of _anything but this_. Helpful thoughts. _Decent_ thoughts. Certainly nothing to do with anatomy or friction or beautiful, laughing saviors.

Just a…delayed side-effect of his prolonged sleep, maybe; some kind of temporary surge in…something, triggered by…by…

He eased a hand down his front with slow precision. Cautious. Perhaps if he only _readjusted_ …

His cock jumped at the brush of his fingers, already traitorously hard. He swept a thumb over the steadily leaking slit, lingering just a touch too long, and had to swallow down a desperate whine. It had been too long. That was all. Just…too long. Lavellan was warm and beautiful and Solas just wasn’t used to the effect she had on him, the _burn_ she ignited. _Unforeseen bodily reactions,_ he reminded, a silent mantra. It was nothing personal. Of course.

His hips jolted forward, desperate for friction, and for a flash of an instant Solas pictured the upturned smirk of blood-red lips and wondered just how sweetly they would taste. How it’d feel to slip his tongue between them…

He jerked his hand free with a start, cheeks flushed a guilty crimson. No, he would not touch himself to thoughts of the Inquisitor. That was…he would never do that. Never.

He buried his head beneath his pillow and tried to imagine the touch of another. Anyone, no one, just _not her_. He conjured thoughts of fair elven maidens, real and imaginary; of comely figures with blank faces and soft, delicate hands. He dredged up lewd memories of past encounters, spiraling frantically into more and more obscene fantasies as his cock gradually softened in his hand.

He thought, accidentally, of Lilith—the echo of her laughter through camp at night, the swell of her bicep when she heaved her greataxe to her shoulder… He spilled into his fist with a strangled cry, face curled guiltily into the curve of his arm. The flare of warmth in his chest only burned brighter.

Ah. Well then.

* * *

 

At one point Solas wondered, madly, if Lavellan did this on purpose. If she somehow knew what she did to him and worked actively to undo him, bit by bit, chipping away at his crumbling foundation like ocean waves. Or if he truly was so depraved that he couldn’t get through an interaction with her without imagining intimacy where there was none. Frankly, he did not trust himself enough to rule out the latter.

They were roaming the Hinterlands, tracking down rifts to seal. Cassandra and Vivienne led from far ahead, while Lavellan and Varric exchanged words behind him—a rambling conversation about books and Hawke and half-true tales. She confessed she’d read quite a few of Varric’s novels, including some forgotten romance he seemed embarrassed of.

“I’ll admit,” he said with an apologetic shrug, “romantic language isn’t exactly my strongest subject. Now, murder, corruption? Really gruesome shit? _That_ I can sell. You’d be surprised how much easier it is to write bloody than flowery.”

“If you’re looking to sound romantic,” she advised, “you should sprinkle in some Elven.”

“Interesting advice. I’ll bite—why’s that?”

“Because everything sounds romantic when you say it in Elven,” she went on. “It never fails. Perks of being a semi-dead language, I guess. Sort of like how everything sounds angrier in Qunlat, or instantly more pretentious in Orlesian. It’s all about tone, not semantics. It doesn’t matter what you’re actually saying, the language itself just _sounds_ sexier.” She turned her head to pin her mage companion with a sultry stare, eyes half-masked and inviting, and purred, “ _Ema ‘ma dhula i pala em._ ”

And no, Solas would _not_ claim fault for this one. He blanched, mask of placidity momentarily cracked. “Do you even know what you’re saying?”

“‘Pull my hair and fuck me,’ roughly translated. But doesn’t it sound prettier in Elven? _Ema ‘ma dhula i pala em—_ ugh, it’s like poetry. Elven phonaesthetics are _divine_.”

“Filthy poetry,” Varric agreed with a snicker. “Where’d a good Dalish girl even learn to talk like that?”

Her laugh went straight to his chest, an arrow of warmth that quickened his heart. “From the bad Dalish girls, obviously.”

Solas wasn’t sure which part of that contributed more to the guilty flush across his cheeks—the obscene command she’d so breathlessly murmured, or how she said “phonaesthetics.” Both pulled his focus to her lips. A troublesome effect.

“You’ll have to write that one down for me,” Varric said with a laugh. “Any other obscene phrases I should know?”

“Always. Give me a language; I’ll give you the handiest phrase I know. You want Antivan? _La fiesta es en mis pantalones, y te invitan._ Orlesian? _Pas dans les yeux!”_

Up ahead, Vivienne actually _laughed_. “Is this a particular hobby of yours, dear? Traveling ‘round Thedas and collecting awful phrases?”

“I collect _wonderful_ phrases,” she corrected. “ _Jupalan ma sule tel mar sule’din; jutuan ma ir rosas’da’din, ma tel’aman melin…_ Honestly, I could go all day. Ooh, you want to hear Tevene?”

Solas would never admit to it, but he _may_ have very clandestinely set a small bush on fire a few yards ahead. As a momentary distraction.

He’d very much rather Lavellan not look at _him,_ at the moment.

With their attention thankfully elsewhere, he let a freezing blast of magic spark ice between his fingertips and gave his thigh a decisive squeeze, sending a jolt of cold to his groin. His erection instantly flagged _. Effective,_ he decided with a wince, _but not sustainable_. He needed to better get ahold of himself, needed to-

…well. Perhaps that would be enough after all.

* * *

 

That night Solas finally broke—slid a hand below his waistband in the blessed privacy of his chambers and did not at all imagine _her_ fingers wrapped around him; _her_ touch working him fervently to release with a firm, calloused grip… He came far too quickly, a frankly embarrassing record, with the image of her still burning fresh in his mind. He shuddered, teeth sunk decisively into his lip. He’d never forgive himself if he called her name.

He’d already never forgive himself for _this_.

Because despite each rationalization, each resolute insistence otherwise, Solas wanted nothing as desperately as he wanted her to _touch_ him again. Wherever, however. Anything, if he could only feel that fleeting warmth—could feel _her_.

With the evidence of his depravity still sticky on his fingers, he tried—unconvincingly—to assure himself this would never happen again.

* * *

 

The fifth time he would admit may have been his own doing.

He planned to make a new addition to the fresco stretching across the rotunda’s walls. Skyhold was Lavellan’s fortress now; its walls should tell of her actions, her triumphs. So far Solas had painted depictions of the Breach, the Inquisition's formation, her alliance with the mages of Redcliffe and the subsequent attack on Haven. He stood before the next panel of blank wall, arms crossed in thought, and deliberated on how to proceed.

He considered how he might paint the Inquisitor. In profile, perhaps; the sharp angles of her jaw a stark contrast to the curvature of her hips. He mentally mapped her form against the empty wall, calculating the tilt of her head, the arch of her back, the precise line of her shoulders. Strong arms. Stronger legs. Leather that clung just a _touch_ too tightly to the rounded muscles her thighs…

Solas imagined, for the quickest flash of an instant, the feel of those thighs pressed to either side of him, locked firm around his hips. Of ruby lips and filthy poetry and his fingers dug tight…

He cut those thoughts short in a flash, like snuffing out a candle. He would not think of her like that. Couldn’t. She was beautiful but she was not _his,_ couldn’t be, and to taint the image of her with thoughts of imagined passions was nothing less than grievous insult. He did not deserve to hold that image.

No, no, he would paint Lavellan properly. Of course. He’d use a fine brush to detail the lines of her vallaslin—delicate fractures of crimson like a crack of lightning beneath her eyes. A shade of deep red for her lips. Cerulean blue for her coat. Brightest amber for her eyes. Of course he’d have to paint her smile—the quirked line of a smirk or a gleaming crescent moon grin, he couldn’t decide, but he could never do her justice without it. Perhaps she was doomed, but she would face her bitter end with a grin and strong, steady hands. She would need a sword, or perhaps an axe…something to clutch tight in her fist, ready to wield. Lilith had proven a skilled diplomat, true, but Solas had witnessed her in action enough to know she was above all a _warrior_. Fierce. Fearless. _Indomitable_.

He would very much enjoy seeing the boundaries of that last trait tested. To see that unconquerable spirit, dominated. He imagined the sight would be…fascinating.

He swallowed, chest tight, and felt an unmistakable pressure in his groin as his cock twitched to attention. On second thought, perhaps it would be better if he did not paint her after all.

The echoing groan of an opening door sent him hurrying to his desk—a cover for which he’d never before been more grateful. He snagged the nearest book and cracked it open at random, hoping desperately to pass his flush off as academic engrossment and not perverse daydreams of the Herald’s thighs.

“I’ve got a very important series of questions for you,” Lavellan announced upon entry. “How comfortable are you with the undead, and subsequently, how good are you at _re-killing_ them?”

She took her seat on the edge of his desk, crossed legs lazily swinging. He could never convince her to use a chair. He was relatively certain she enjoyed the extra height. She rattled on about new reports from Crestwood, and Solas lost himself to wandering thoughts of future portraits. Perhaps he would paint her like this—lounging back on outstretched arms, brow furrowed in thought, with red-stained lips and obscene whispers…

He tried to smother a horrid, flickering _need_ under a wave of sobering thoughts, and instead found himself fixated on the impossible snugness of her pants. _No, not that,_ he reminded. _Sobering thoughts._ He gingerly smoothed a palm over the growing bulge between his legs, and prayed she didn’t ask him to stand.

A messenger arrived with a request for Lavellan’s urgent attention, and with a reluctant nod she slid off the edge of his desk. “Tell her I’ll be just a minute. Thanks.” She paused mid-step to twirl back and touch a hand to his with a terrible, beautiful smile. “Let me know if you need any help,” she offered, and Solas would almost swear she snuck in a wink. “I’ve been told I’m pretty good with my hands.”

Solas watched her saunter away, jaw tight. _Yes,_ he thought to say. _I’m sure you have many talents._

He dug fingernails into his palms, silent, and tried desperately not to think of how badly he wished to sink them into the meat of her thighs.

_Or- no. Not that._

He thought, in a daze, that this would be much easier in the Fade.

Much, much easier.

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out again to [Project Elvhen](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3553883/chapters/7826624) for all the great filthy Elven. A++
> 
>  
> 
> Other languages are more approximations based on game dialogue. Antivan's either Spanish or Italian (or possibly both, depending on the region?); Orlesian's pretty much just French.
> 
>  
> 
> Translations (roughly):  
>  _La fiesta es en mis pantalones, y te invitan._ = The party's in my pants, and you're invited.  
>  _Pas dans les yeux!_ = Not in the eyes!  
>  _Jupalan ma sule tel mar sule’din._ = I will fuck you until you have no endurance left.  
>  _Jutuan ma ir rosas’da’din, ma tel’aman melin._ = I will make you cum so much that you won’t remember your name.  
> lilith why you gotta


End file.
